“Well, that isn’t the way to reward him,” said Mr. Martin.
“You might give him a lollypop,” said Doris, winking at Westy.
“Well,” said Mrs. Martin, putting her arm about poor Westy and speaking in her gentle way, “we’re not going to quarrel about next summer the very first evening we’re all together and have so much to tell each other; we’re just going to forget all about it, dearie.”
“I’ll tell you one thing,” exploded Mr. Martin, speaking to Westy, but at his daughter. “If Archie Captroop had gone shooting buffaloes when he was sixteen and got his head filled up with all this wild-west business he wouldn’t be drawing forty dollars a week at Ketchem and Skinners in Wall Street now. There was none of this falderal when he was sixteen, and look at him now.”
“Picture him hunting buffaloes,” Doris exploded mirthfully.
“Do you mean I can’t go then?” said Westy.
“I mean you should settle down to school now,” said his father not unkindly, “and forget everything else.”
Mr. Martin was not as good a scout as his son. Westy was steeled then and there to hear the worst. But Mr. Martin had not the courage to tell him the worst. He would hem and haw and bluster all winter. But he had no intention of letting Westy go. He would talk about boys breaking their necks until the household would be weary of hearing him. By such talk he would take all the pleasure of going from Westy. Westy’s hope and spirit would be broken instead of his neck. That was the way Mr. Martin worked.
CHAPTER VIII—WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN
The Martins, notwithstanding their moderate prosperity, kept no car. Because people broke their necks with cars. Likewise, notwithstanding their moderate prosperity, Westy was not going to go to college. Because he wanted to go in for football and in that way boys broke their necks. Mr. Martin was not a bad sort of man, he was just (as Doris said) impossible.